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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392603">for all the tragedies of the world</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/artistical_failure/pseuds/artistical_failure'>artistical_failure</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>also as i type this i realize i forgot to mention lancelot in the story WHOOPS LMAO, also yeah this is in 2nd person because i love making everything harder for myself, but they're not murdered or anything it's just the unforgiving passage of time, i wrote most of this when i was half asleep so forgive any incoherent bits, okay so a lot of people die, this is long and rambly but i hope you guys enjoy anyway, uhhh anyway idk what i was going for here, you know what? whatever. its fine. its probably fine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:07:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/artistical_failure/pseuds/artistical_failure</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You come to Camelot because you have nowhere else to go.</p><p> </p><p>You stay because somehow, without you even realizing, it’s become your home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gaius &amp; Merlin (Merlin), Gwen &amp; Merlin (Merlin), Merlin &amp; Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>for all the tragedies of the world</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i had feelings. here is the result</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You come to Camelot because you have nowhere else to go.</p><p> </p><p>You stay because you find people worth hanging around for. Besides, it’s not that bad there, really, with the sunshine and the hustle and bustle of the marketplace during busy afternoons.</p><p> </p><p>And when you rush through the castle, ducking and dodging by obstacles that you’re slowly starting to predict, you think that maybe you could get used to this.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Arthur was unexpected, but in the best kind of way.</p><p> </p><p>You don’t think you’ve ever met a person as infuriating as the prince. He’s stubborn and hotheaded and he’s loyal and kind, but it’s the easy back-and-forth bantering that keeps drawing you back in. You’ll learn to appreciate or resent his other qualities later, but now it’s effortless and you’ve never had that, never knew how much you needed that, so you revel in it.</p><p> </p><p>Of course you’re opposites, two sides of the same coin but different sides nonetheless, so the relationship between you stumps just about everyone. Maybe even Arthur, although he’d never admit it.</p><p> </p><p>What a prat.</p><p> </p><p>(Secretly, you think he’ll make a great king.)</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>You come to Camelot because you have nowhere else to go.</p><p> </p><p>You stay because somehow, without you even realizing, it’s become your home.</p><p> </p><p>(It doesn’t last, because it never does. You should’ve expected this, but you’d hoped that maybe this time...</p><p> </p><p>Well. It doesn’t matter anymore. It never lasts, and you should’ve known.)</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Uther passes away and Arthur is heartbroken and it’s all your fault.</p><p> </p><p><em> Morgana, it was Morgana</em>, Gaius insists, <em> she was the one who cast the enchantment</em>. And yes, maybe that’s true, but Arthur blames you and his opinion was the only one that ever really mattered to you, wasn’t it? Morgana may have set the trap, but she wasn’t the one who’d delivered the killing blow.</p><p> </p><p><em> You didn’t have any other choice</em>, Gaius argues.</p><p> </p><p><em> Anything else would’ve been better</em>, you argue right back.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten involved. Uther was going to die anyway, wasn’t he? Gaius was right about that — there had been no other way. But now Arthur hates you (hates sorcerers, hates <em> magic</em>) and the tinny voice at the back of your head crowing about the end of a tyrannical reign is abruptly silenced by the memory of Arthur’s tear-stained face, the accusing shout of <em> “You killed him!” </em> stricken with grief forever seared into your mind, and—</p><p> </p><p>You spend the entire night waiting for Arthur, and you think about growing up too fast and how you are two sides of the same coin, after all. The Universe has a sick sense of humour, you decide, and then Arthur comes out of the throne room with red-rimmed eyes and you think, <em> I never should’ve gotten involved. </em></p><p> </p><p>(You’re right in the end; Arthur makes a great ruler, but that was never the point. Camelot could’ve waited a little bit longer for a new king.)</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>You come to Camelot because you have nowhere else to go, and you stay because it’s become your home, and you—</p><p> </p><p>You—</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>You lose your magic, and then you get it back, and Arthur dies.</p><p> </p><p>Despite your best efforts, despite everything you’ve done to prevent this, he dies in the end and it’s your fault.</p><p> </p><p>(Hysterically, you think that at least somebody got to fulfill their destiny. <em> Don’t save the druid boy, </em> Kilgarrah had said, but he was just a child. <em> What happened to the boy who walked into my chambers all those years ago? </em> Gaius had asked, and you’d said <em> He grew up </em> but you helped Mordred anyway, because the boy who walked into Gaius’ chambers didn’t grow up, not really, he just remembered Uther and how it all went wrong and he got scared.</p><p> </p><p>But you shouldn’t have saved Mordred. You could’ve lived with blood on your hands, so long as it wasn’t Arthur’s.)</p><p> </p><p>Gwen tells you it isn't your fault, but she’s talking through tears and all you can see when you look at her is a reminder of how you failed.</p><p> </p><p>So you—</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>You come to Camelot, and you stay, and you think it’s home, and Arthur is… <em> something</em>. He’s something to you, something you’ve never had, something you’ve never known, but he’s… something.</p><p> </p><p>And then, all too soon, he’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>You realize sometime after he dies that Arthur was the sense of familiarity about Camelot. Without him, everything you thought you knew looks foreign and wrong; the town just isn’t as lively anymore, the sky too dull and grey. The world is mourning him, too, you think, and suddenly feel very selfish.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe, with time, you could learn to love it here again. But there are memories and it hurts to remember, so you do what you haven’t done in a very long time.</p><p> </p><p>You leave.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Soon, one by one, they start to follow.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Gaius is the first to go.</p><p> </p><p>(Gwen sends you a letter about funeral arrangements, but you can't read past the first line — <em>I'm so sorry, Merlin</em> — and end up throwing it away. You find some tavern on the outskirts of who-knows-where and hole yourself away in a drunken stupor until the stabbing pain in your chest recedes. Then you pull yourself together and gather some flowers and herbs, place them in front of a nondescript slab of stone in the middle of the forest. Whisper a little spell to keep it hidden from prying eyes and take a moment to silently thank the man who’d been like a father to you.</p><p> </p><p>Then you leave, again. It seems to be all you’re good for these days.)</p><p> </p><p>A few years later, Percival passes. It’s on the anniversary of Gwaine’s death -- struck down by a renegade bandit on patrol. <em> He was drunk, </em> people would later whisper, and shake their heads and call it irresponsible. Upon hearing the story, you will close your eyes in resignation and name it grief.</p><p> </p><p>(You understand drowning sorrows in alcohol. Understand being a bit more reckless than necessary. Wonder, sometimes, if Percival had done it on purpose.</p><p> </p><p>Wonder if Percival and Gwaine were reunited at last.</p><p> </p><p>Wonder if Arthur was there, too.)</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>You find your way back to the village eventually. </p><p> </p><p>Your mother gets sick, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so helpless. All the magic in the world can’t help her, and there’s something so horribly dreadful about the realization that this is the last time you’ll ever see her. You think maybe you should’ve done more, spent more time with her, been a better son.</p><p> </p><p>“You were the greatest son,” she whispers, “the greatest a mother could ever ask for,” she says, with teary eyes and a sweet smile, and you suddenly hate yourself for leaving Ealdor all those years ago. How could you have ever gone? How could you have ever left this behind, this wonderful, small town, and this beautiful woman who loved you with all her being, who loved you so much that you could feel it from kingdoms away? </p><p> </p><p>She passes away a few days later, says <em> I’m sorry </em> and <em> I love you </em> and then she doesn’t say anything anymore, and you wonder if going to Camelot was even worth it.</p><p> </p><p>But it had to have been worth it, it <em> had </em>to have been, because otherwise you’re the idiot who spent years of his life neglecting the only person who’d ever truly accepted you.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Next to go is Leon. Then, finally, Gwen.</p><p> </p><p>(Then and then and then, until nothing else can follow, until there’s no one else left to go. Plucked from the earth like a flower, beautiful and brief and then withered and dead. And you’re all alone.)</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The world feels like it’s ending. Somehow, time marches on.</p><p> </p><p>Years and then decades and then centuries pass, and you meet new people, but you still think of Gwen and Gaius and your mother and you miss them all terribly. You try returning to Camelot sometime in the 14th century but it’s different now, and the people there call it <em> Cadbury </em> and it’s all so <em> wrong </em>that you feel a bit nauseous. </p><p> </p><p>You travel a lot, meet brilliant people like Michelangelo and Shakespeare. Sometimes you find yourself forgetting about Camelot, and that scares you so much that you decide to put it all in writing — books on top of books filled with everything you can remember, from the knights’ adventures to the colour of the drapes in Gwen’s kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>(Purple. They were purple, you can say with absolute certainty, and it’s almost comforting.)</p><p> </p><p>So you travel and you meet people and it’s good for a while, it <em> is</em>, but they all leave eventually, too. Inevitably, you always end up alone.</p><p> </p><p>You’ve had centuries of practice dealing with loss. You should be used to it.</p><p> </p><p>Still, it never really gets any easier.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>(Eventually - <em> eventually </em>- when you’re too old to care about keeping track of age anymore, when the wonder and desperation and rage at the world around you has given way to a cold numbness, you feel the river Avalon calling to you. You let it pull you in dazedly, muscle memory leading you to the rocky shores of the lake.</p><p> </p><p><em> Here</em>, the waters whisper. Or maybe it’s your imagination — but there’s a feeling of certainty, now, the clarity of realization that cuts through the haze like the slash of a sword. This is it, you think. You’ve wandered for long enough. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” you say aloud. “Okay.” </p><p> </p><p>You sit on the grass, paying no mind to the morning dew that clings to the denim of your jeans. For the first time in years, something like hope blooms in your chest. Nothing happens in the following minutes, but that’s okay. </p><p> </p><p>You’ve waited centuries already. You can wait a little longer.)</p><p>
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